


Give Me Your Hand

by HeartOfStars



Series: A Parent's Heart [1]
Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Original Trilogy
Genre: And He Knows It, Duelling, Father-Son Relationship, Gen, Luke Skywalker Needs A Hug, Near Death Experiences, Post-Star Wars: The Empire Strikes Back, Pre-Star Wars: Return of the Jedi, R2-D2 is a smartass
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-14
Updated: 2020-03-14
Packaged: 2021-03-01 01:16:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,252
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23136793
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HeartOfStars/pseuds/HeartOfStars
Summary: Post-ESB, Luke Skywalker has only one place he can go to get the Gamorrean armor necessary for Lando to infiltrate Jabba's palace: a ruined droid factory on Mustafar. But someone is waiting there when he arrives.
Relationships: Luke Skywalker & Darth Vader, R2-D2 & Luke Skywalker
Series: A Parent's Heart [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1663087
Comments: 41
Kudos: 264





	Give Me Your Hand

**Author's Note:**

  * For [KaelinaLovesLomaris](https://archiveofourown.org/users/KaelinaLovesLomaris/gifts).



> The gift is late, but it is here! Happy birthday, KaelinaLovesLomaris!

Mustafar was hell made real. 

That was the only thing Luke could think as he sat in his X-Wing on the landing platform. He couldn’t get himself to move just yet. He didn’t want to move, didn’t want to take a step closer to the rolling rivers of hot lava, to the fires that raged on the eastern shore. Didn’t want to breathe the hot, sulfurous air. 

He had never been on Mustafar. But he’d heard what it was like. 

Luke sighed. “We’ve really gotten in deep, haven’t we, Artoo?” 

_Not we,_ Artoo snarked back. _Just you._

Luke smiled. “Just me? Well, I seem to recall you _refusing_ to let me go alone.”

_That’s because you wouldn’t last two seconds without me._

“Oh, really? What makes you think that?”

_Because when we went to Bespin, I lost you for about half an hour. The next I saw you, you were almost unconscious and you were missing your right hand._

Bespin. Ah, yes. That was exactly what he wanted to be thinking about while he was on a planet that was strong in the Dark Side. 

It had been almost three months. That didn’t mean he’d gotten over it. 

“That’s, uh…” His voice cracked, and he cleared his throat. “That’s a little…”

_Too soon?_

“Yeah.” Luke blinked, trying to clear the memories from his head. “It’s okay.”

He looked out at the fiery landscape with a long sigh. 

Luke had never wanted to be there; he’d never wanted to be anywhere near the planet. It wasn’t exactly a tourist destination, after all. But besides that, during a break in the ruthless training he’d received on Dagobah, Yoda had taken the time to warn him about planets strong in the Dark Side; and about Mustafar, specifically. 

“Strong with the Dark Side, it is,” Yoda had said.

“According to you, so are about twenty others,” Luke had replied. In his defense, it had been a really long day. 

Yoda then whacked him with his stick. 

“To avoid speaking without need, you will learn. Strong in the Dark Side, Mustafar is; but have an added danger, it does. A planet of death, it is.”

“Death? Who has it killed?”

Yoda’s large eyes, usually so playful and mischievous, had turned dark and serious. “Many great Jedi.” He looked off into the distance. “Said, it is, that where Jedi go to die, Mustafar is.” 

Luke had left Tatooine with the idea that there was no place he wasn’t going to go, no mission he would refuse, nothing he would not be willing to experience. But after that chilling conversation, he decided he would never go to Mustafar. 

And yet, as it turned out, there was an old factory just off the landing platform; a ruined droid factory, from the Clone Wars, and no one had expected it to be of any worth. However, according to one of their spies, there were several armor replicas that still remained intact; namely, several sets of Gamorrean armor. 

The exact kind of armor Lando would need to go undercover in Jabba’s palace. 

They had tried to get it every other way: bribery, contacting people Luke had known an Tatooine, contacting bounty hunters, everything. Everyone they’d contacted seemed highly suspicious and refused to give it to them, or even tell them where to find it. And the problem was that without it, Lando would never get into the palace. Multiple bounty hunters already knew the Rebels were searching for Han Solo; even _with_ the armor, Lando would have to be extremely careful.

Mustafar was the last possible location, and as the resident Jedi, Luke had volunteered to go and get it. He didn’t want Leia--or Lando--anywhere near such a dangerous planet. 

But now that he was _here,_ he wasn’t too happy about it. 

There was nothing for it. He had to get out. 

Luke sighed, pushing the button to eject himself from the cockpit. There was one thing that might make this better: the lightsaber he’d finished the day before. He hadn’t told anyone he’d finished it, besides Leia; no one else would have understood the particular importance of constructing a weapon. After months of deliberation, of sleepless nights, of every waking minute spent _ignoring_ his father’s probing presence, he had at last gone to Tatooine. He’d discovered the things that Obi-Wan had left for him, had spent days and nights meditating, and finally--after many failed attempts--he had a lightsaber that was truly _his._ Not Obi-Wan’s. Not...not his father’s. His. 

Feeling a surge of determination, he grabbed the lightsaber and clipped it to his belt before climbing down. 

Artoo whistled at him. 

“Stay with the ship, Artoo,” he said, turning to walk away. 

At once, Artoo _shrieked_ at him. 

_No!_ Luke had never before heard his droid sound so panicked. _I have to come with you!_

Luke turned back at once. “Artoo, I’ll be safe! It’s you I’m worried about. If you fall into that lava, there’s no getting you back--”

_I won’t. I promise. But I have to come with you. Something might happen._

“Artoo, _I_ won’t fall into the lava either,” Luke promised him, but that did nothing to calm the droid down. 

_That is not the worst that can happen._

Luke felt a sense of danger. 

_Where Jedi go to die, Mustafar is._

“All right,” Luke said. “Come on.” 

With a happy whistle, Artoo unlatched himself. Luke lifted him down using the Force, and the two were on their way. 

  
  


The more he saw of Mustafar, the less Luke found himself liking it. 

First and foremost was the air, as he’d expected. The first few seconds had been a relief, after the cold of space; then those seconds had passed and it became uncomfortable. In several minutes, he had begun to sweat; and after about fifteen minutes of walking, the heat was _unbearable._ He’d begun wearing suits of black after beginning the construction of his lightsaber, out of a desire to look more like a Jedi; but maybe, he thought as he pulled at his shirt for the umpteenth time, maybe this was the day he should have gone back to fatigues. 

“Artoo,” he panted as the little droid sped along up ahead, seemingly unaffected by the temperature, “Artoo, slow down.”

 _You are a Jedi,_ came back the response. _You are supposed to be able to adapt in any condition._

“Artoo--”

_You seem angry. Anger is of the Dark Side._

Artoo had stopped. His domed head was tilted back, looking at Luke almost _sassily._

Luke raised an eyebrow at him. 

“That’s not a very nice tone,” he said, feeling suddenly like a parent. “As the droid of a Rebel Commander, shouldn’t you show a little more respect?”

_As a Rebel Commander, shouldn’t you show a little more patience?_

Luke wanted to scold Artoo again. He knew he should scold Artoo again. But that also happened to be the funniest thing Artoo had said to him all day, and there weren’t many things to be amused at these days. 

So he erupted into laughter. 

_I hope you’re not mocking me._

“Of course not,” Luke said, wiping his eyes. “It’s just that you’re so damn funny.” Somehow, it was easier to handle the temperature when he was laughing. He started walking again. “No wonder you and Leia get along. You have the same sense of humor.” 

Whistling happily, Artoo followed Luke ahead. 

  
  


After a few more minutes of the painful climate, Luke and Artoo came upon a dark castle, not directly in front of them but across the way. Another minute, and the road--held up by gravity supports far above the lava--opened up before them to reveal the old droid factory. Luke grinned. 

“See, Artoo?” he said as they walked inside. “What did I tell you? No danger here.” 

Artoo, however, didn’t seem so convinced. He let out a nervous whistle. 

_What does your sixth sense tell you?_

“That there’s no danger,” Luke said, ever amused that Artoo referred to the Force as his ‘sixth sense.’ “Come on. The main room isn’t far.” 

But as they walked farther into the factory, something began to prickle at the back of Luke’s spine; just a feeling, and a whisper of a feeling at that, that something was wrong. And then the whisper grew to a constant voice, and the voice grew louder and more vocal. 

“We need to hurry,” Luke said. 

_There is danger?_

“Yes.” He smiled. “My sixth sense is talking to me.”

_Where is the danger?_

“I don’t know. I don’t think it’s too close.” They moved into a narrow, dark passageway; Luke shivered. It reminded him uncomfortably of a very similar passage in the freezing chamber at Cloud City. “But we need to hurry.” 

Luke walked faster, comforted only slightly by the feeling of the lightsaber at his side; the armory was only one room away, he told himself, just one room away. 

As they walked, the voice grew quieter, back into a whisper. 

_Danger,_ it told him softly. A still, small voice. _Danger._

“I think we’re moving away from it,” he told Artoo. “Come on!”

Breaking into a run, he hurried through the rest of the passage, wanting only for the voice to go away. He was only here to get one suit of armor; get the suit and go. The sooner he was rid of this hell planet, the better. 

Finally they were out of the passage and into the control room. Luke stopped short. This was clearly the oldest part of the factory; the walls were scarred with dust and mold, the floor showed signs of wear, and what’s more, there were odd marks on the walls. 

The marks looked ancient, but Luke knew immediately that they had been made by a lightsaber. 

“Oh, I have a bad feeling about this,” he said. “Artoo, let’s go!”

He turned around. 

Artoo let out a shriek. 

Darth Vader was standing mere inches from him. 

For one long, horrible moment, Luke stood frozen. Then he turned and ran for the door at the opposite end of the room. 

Immediately, it slid shut. 

Desperately, Luke turned toward the other door. As soon as he did, that one shut as well, and so did the third; and by the time he had turned back toward Vader, he could see that the Sith Lord’s right hand was raised. One more door was open behind him. 

In seconds, that door had slid shut as well. 

And then he was left with...with…

Horrified, Luke raised his eyes upward. 

“Welcome, my son,” Vader said. The damning words. “I have been expecting you.”

  
  


Seeing his son again was riveting. 

It was fortunate that Vader had closed down the Inquisitorius several years ago. If he had not, Luke would undoubtedly not have come to Mustafar at all; the Rebellion had learned, quite wisely, to fear it. But with that closed down, there was no reason for Luke not to come there, especially if he wished to help his smuggler friend. 

It was also helpful that Vader had been able to send spies in order to learn when Luke would be coming and why. 

It had been planned; far better, in fact, than Bespin. But that did not mean Vader had held out hope that it would work. Luke was the most stubborn person he had encountered in his life-- _and maybe that had something to do with who had fathered him_ \--and he had fully expected something to go wrong. The boy had escaped him about a dozen times, after all. 

But nothing had gone wrong. He had muted his presence in the Force, spread it as thin as could possibly be. Even that could not completely rid Luke of the sense that something was wrong; so he had come up behind him, slowly, to give him the illusion that he was escaping the danger. 

Everything had worked out perfectly, 

And yet, after he had spoken once, Vader could not say anything more. He had thought that he would never see Luke again, that the boy, his own carbon copy, his only son, had disappeared into the depths of Cloud City. And yet he was back, his son had survived by some miracle of the Force; and Vader was speechless. 

And what a man he was, Vader’s son. Blond, as... _Anakin_ had been. Short, certainly--and there was no doubt that he had gotten that from _her_ \--but strong. Afraid, but holding himself upright--already, stronger than he had been on Bespin. It was a physical strength, of course; but also an inner strength, a strength of character. Luke was nowhere near broken. 

Vader had never felt so proud of anyone. He hadn’t felt proud at _all,_ in twenty-three years. 

But he couldn’t say it, because what was important, first and foremost, was turning Luke. Whatever came after...was for after. 

He reached out a hand. 

“Luke.” He managed to speak at last; but it had an immediate effect, which was that Luke flinched back. Not an excellent start. “Luke, I…” Again, he could not find the words to say what he really wanted. 

_Control, he needed control._ Somehow, in the presence of this boy, any semblance of control left him. 

Vader drew himself up taller. 

“I trust that you have accepted the truth,” he said coldly. 

Anger entered Luke’s eyes. 

“So what if I have?” He was bitter; the boy was bitter about what had happened. He was clutching his right hand to his chest. “It doesn’t matter either way. I’m _not_ joining you.” 

Outside the factory, a particularly vicious spray of lava splashed upward. 

“But it does matter,” Vader said, deciding to press on. “You are _meant_ to join me.” 

Luke closed his eyes; a barely repressed shudder passed over his face. He seemed to be having the same trouble with finding words, so Vader waited. 

“I’m not going to discuss it,” he said at last. “I’m here for something else.”

“Yes,” Vader said. “You are here for a suit of Gamorrean armor. For one of your friends.” 

Luke’s eyes widened; his shock flared in the Force. 

“How do you know that?” he demanded, his voice shaking. Then his voice hardened. “Have you been spying on me?” 

“It was necessary.” Vader took a step closer, which Luke matched with a step back. “I confess to keeping eyes on you--for me, spies are easy to come by.” He took another step, making an effort to soften his voice as far as the confounded vocoder would allow. “I only wished that we could...talk.” 

“Talk,” Luke echoed, continuing to take slow steps backward; the droid at his side, incredibly similar to one that...Anakin had once owned, moved with him. “The two of us?” He gave a short laugh. “No, what you want to do is finish what we started on Bespin. I’m not going to do that.” 

The words stung. Luke automatically assumed that any interaction between them was supposed to end in a fight. Of course, Vader had never given the boy any reason to think otherwise; he would have to exercise caution moving forward. 

“All I want is to get the armor,” Luke continued, his voice trembling slightly. “I...I need to rescue my friend, and this is the only way we can get in--”

While he was still speaking, he moved sideways, gesturing at the droid to stay still before edging around past Vader toward the other door. 

A smart move, but one Vader had expected. He moved to block Luke. 

“You have an unnecessary amount of friends,” Vader said. That, too, he had learned from his spies; if only Luke had _none at all._ Then, this would be easy. But then, without them, he would never have lured Luke to Bespin, and his son would never have learned the truth at all. “Surely, if you want Captain Solo freed so terribly, any one of them will be sufficient.” 

“No,” Luke said, sounding desperate. “No, you don’t understand. He’s being held by Jabba the Hutt.” He scowled. “Do you even know who he is?”

For a moment, Luke was forgotten. Unbidden, memories rushed back--threats to send a certain boy and his mother to Jabba if they did not obey, sights of slaves in the marketplace walking with their heads bowed--

“Do I even _know?_ ” Vader snarled; Luke took several hurried steps backward. “I--do you not--” 

_Anakin is dead. You are Vader._

“You are behaving foolishly,” he declared, moving swiftly to block Luke as he moved again for another exit. “Do not think that _I_ do not wish there were some other way...but there is not. The Jedi are weak. They have all been extinguished.”

“Yeah,” Luke snapped, “because guess who extinguished them?”

“That is precisely my point. They had deceived me, turned against me those who--” 

He stopped. He could not remotely _think_ of--of--

Luke looked at him oddly. “Those who you... _cared about?_ ”

“NO!” Vader cut him off almost before he’d finished. “Caring is weak. Attachments gain you _nothing_ in the end. But the Jedi had deceived me about the way the galaxy is, about what I was _meant to do._ They created war. That war killed trillions. To stop it--”

“No!” Luke cried out, edging further backwards. “That is _not_ the way it happened, you--”

“To stop it,” Vader went on, ignoring Luke’s protests, “I turned to the Dark. I followed the Emperor’s teachings, and I killed all of the Jedi that I could find. The war was--”

“All the Jedi,” Luke said slowly, interrupting. “ _All._ Ben told me--he said that in the old days, there were many--” 

Vader _saw_ the horror cross Luke’s face. The revulsion. He could do nothing to stop it...because the truth was, that terrible deed had been necessary. 

But that didn’t make it any easier to bear. 

His face white, Luke brought a hand up to his mouth. 

“You…” He lowered it slowly. The hand was shaking. “You murdered _children._ ” His face contorted in rage. “Children! You killed--you killed--” As quickly as it had come, the rage was gone, replaced by quiet horror. “You killed all the children who would have become Jedi.” 

Vader had known that was coming. But still it was horrifying--it was _awful_ \--to see his son, his own flesh and blood, look at him with that degree of horror. 

“It was the price I paid,” he said slowly, “for restoring peace.” 

“ _Peace?_ ” Luke stopped--there were tears in his eyes. He was shaking his head, as if he couldn’t believe it. “Here I believed there was some shred of humanity in you--some _tiny piece,_ maybe, that would mean I wasn’t so royally doomed to be a terrible person!”

“It is not terrible,” Vader said, desperate to slow Luke’s train of thought--he had taken a wrong turn again, he realized, in trying to turn his son, and he needed to fix it before something else happened. “Do you think I _wanted_ to do it? It was what needed to be done. Some things we cannot avoid.” 

He took a step closer, and Luke took a stumbling step backward; he almost had the boy trapped against the viewport, with no viable escape routes. Almost there…

“What you will learn, my son,” he started, but Luke cut him off. 

“Don’t call me that,” he said softly, his voice trembling. “You don’t...you don’t _deserve_ to call me that!”

It was true. Vader knew that. He had known that since learning of Luke’s existence. 

“What you will learn before the end,” he said, “ _if_ you learn the correct way, which you will if I am teaching you, is that sometimes there _is_ no other option. The Rebellion is failing. The Emperor is useless.” He stepped back and once more held out his hand. “I restate my order, perhaps this time with some better context: _come with me._ You are running out of _time,_ and _I_ am your only option.” 

Luke stared at him. His eyes were beautiful, most likely blue; and in those seconds, Vader saw a multitude of emotions pass through them. Fear, anger, disbelief. 

But the one that stuck was determination. 

“You’re running out of time, and I’m your only option?” Luke shook his head. “No. There is _always_ another option.” 

The next moment, Luke’s hand moved to his waist and, lightning fast, drew a... _lightsaber hilt._

His son had already constructed a new lightsaber. 

That realization distracted Vader too much for him to react when a bright green blade extended out towards him and swung his arm at the viewport. Glass shattered, and a wave of heat and sparks and memories of burning was swept into the droid factory. 

Below them were the fires of Mustafar. 

Below them, somewhere in the distance, was that same shore where his lifeblood had been burned away from him--where Obi-Wan had struck him down--where he had been foolish, overconfident--

Below was the fire that had seared his flesh and the Force within him and ensured that the rest of his lifetime would be spent in agony--

And there _Luke_ was, standing over it himself. Just like on Bespin, just like when he had fallen to…

Vader was brought back to the present. 

Luke could not die. Luke had to turn, it would save him so he couldn’t die--but in a moment that desire was eclipsed by a sudden terror that his son would go through the exact pain as his father. 

“No!” Vader roared, reaching toward him. 

Luke stepped up onto the viewport’s ledge. 

“Sorry, Father,” he said. “I have to save my friend.” 

Then he turned and leaped towards the fire below. 

  
  
  


There was a split second of absolute terror as Luke realized that he had just thrown himself towards lava hot enough to burn his skin off at the slightest touch. Fortunately, the Force was with him. Holding his lightsaber in his right hand, he grabbed with his left at one of the gravity supports as he fell. It held him-- _barely._ Luke let out an agonized yell as the movement tore at the ligaments connecting his arm to his shoulder, but extinguished his lightsaber and managed to drag himself up, and then up again, and up a final time before he was standing on a bridge outside the factory. 

_Armory,_ he thought to himself, _Where is it?_

Luke looked to the left, then the right; then he noticed that the bulkiest part of the factory was on his right. That had to be it. Carefully, turning his face away to shield it from the sparks and fire, he edged along the bridge--

Then, with a heavy thud, Darth Vader--his _father_ who had apparently killed children--landed in front of him. 

“You will leave with me immediately,” Vader proclaimed, “and that is _final._ ”

How _dare_ he? How dare he admit to being a murderer and a monster and then have the audacity to sound so...so… _parental?_

The thought ignited Luke’s fury, and once more, he ignited his lightsaber. He was a Jedi; he was a Jedi, and he would remain calm, and he would not seek out a fight...unless Vader was going to stop him from rescuing Han. 

“No,” he said. “I’m going to get that armor and save my friend, and _that_ is final!” 

Luke leaped upward, turning in a smooth front flip over his father’s head and landing solidly on the ground; the bridge shook slightly, but he didn’t care. He turned around, intending to keep an eye on Vader as he walked backward toward the armory--

A hum cut off his thoughts. 

Vader had drawn his own lightsaber. 

Luke swallowed hard. “We don’t need to do this, we don’t need to fight--” 

Vader raised the saber over his head and struck at him. 

Luke had no other choice. He raised his own lightsaber in defense, focusing all his strength and willpower into not only defending himself, but making strokes of his own, making his own attack. He would _not_ be weak as he had on Bespin. If he wanted to win--and he would, in order to get Lando’s ticket into Jabba’s palace--he had to put up a defense of his own. 

A powerful stroke knocked him backward, pushed him up against the rail-- _not again._ Determination rushed through him, and Luke pushed his lightsaber up, locking their blades together. 

He was all too aware that that rail was the only thing stopping him from burning to death. 

“You have grown stronger since Bespin,” Vader remarked. 

“You’ve grown more foolish,” Luke said through clenched teeth. “After a rejection like that, do you really think I’ll join you?”

And yet he couldn’t push Vader back, not completely. Mostly because there were three motives pulling at him. 

_Get the armor, save Han, get the armor, save Han,_ one said on repeat. 

_He’s your father, you can’t fight him,_ said another--quieter, but stronger than it had been in the last three months. 

And finally, the last, the strongest: _Kill him. He murdered children._

Luke knew what would be the best course of action. Internally, he knew it; killing Vader would allow him to get the armor and escape unimpeded. 

And yet, the second voice still existed. 

Vader’s blade pressed further against his; Luke’s foot slipped temporarily, and the bridge creaked. 

Vader looked down at him. 

“Luke,” he said. “Cease your fighting _now,_ and come with me. It is--”

Furious, Luke gathered all his strength and pushed Vader’s blade away. 

“Don’t say it’s safer,” he said, moving immediately to strike; this time it was Vader who had to block. “Being with you is more dangerous than death.” 

The bridge creaked again, and he shifted to the left. 

“This is an old factory,” Vader said. The man never ran out of excuses, did he? “It may collapse--”

“Then it’ll take you out too, which is what you deserve,” Luke snapped back in return, blocking a heavy stroke from Vader. He pulled back, keeping his blade level as he inched backward farther, ever closer to the armory. “You should have died years ago!”

 _No,_ whispered the voice that was growing ever more potent. _He’s your father._

But he struck again, arms shaking with the effort, and with the knowledge that Vader had murdered all the Jedi children. He should have guessed it, should have connected the dots; but his mind hadn’t wanted to. Certainly not after learning the truth--and if Vader was a monster, and Vader was his father, what did that make him--and he had just wanted there to be _something_ good in him! 

But there wasn’t. Now knowing that, there was nothing good. A person would have to be absolutely despicable, heartless, to kill children, innocents who had never done anything wrong. 

Luke struck again, driving Vader back this time with the force of it. 

Being a Sith, armed with a lightsaber, he must have looked them all in the eyes. Kids, some of them maybe only five years older than Luke himself. 

How could such a man be his father? 

“Luke, _stop!_ ” Vader bellowed, but Luke knew it was only a ploy to turn him. 

“You never cared about me,” Luke said, striking quickly before running along the bridge; he was almost to its end. Vader swung at him again, and he turned to block the strike with relative ease. Somehow, it was easier for him when he was angry like this; he didn’t stop to think about what it meant. “You could’ve showed up years ago, but you didn’t.”

“No,” Vader snarled, attacking Luke with almost enough force to send him to his knees. “That is not true!” 

“Then tell me you just want me as a son,” Luke challenged him. “Tell me you have no interest in turning me, at all!” 

Vader hesitated one second. 

Then he attacked with even more ferocity than before. 

Luke blocked the stroke viciously, leaping over the rail onto a platform one level above them; Vader followed him, a wave of lava splashing up behind him, but Luke didn’t care. He’d almost forgotten his surroundings. He fought through the growing sweat on his clothes, pushed himself past any boundary he’d ever known. Suddenly it had become all-important to get to the armory; not just for Han’s sake, but to prove to his father that he was more than a pawn. More than someone he could use--that the taunts he’d received on Bespin meant nothing to him. 

Just as he, Luke Skywalker, had meant nothing to Darth Vader until he showed an ounce of strength in the Force. 

He was angrier than he’d been in his entire life. 

The heat of the fire and the sweltering temperature of Mustafar were nothing compared to his fury. 

Vader had just wanted someone to join him, hadn’t he? Whatever he’d been once, whoever he’d been...he hadn’t loved. Otherwise he would have found Luke long before, like the father Luke had always _dreamed_ of. Instead, he’d waited, until he was sure that Luke had the Force. Luke had just received proof his father didn’t care about children, after all. 

Sparks stung his face. 

How long had he known? 

Had he known Luke’s whole life? 

In his rage, Luke swung his lightsaber through a support beam. The ground shook under both of them; both of them moved quickly backward. Sparks shot upward, stinging Luke’s face. 

The son and the father stopped, blades hovering in the air; they stood at opposite ends of the platform. 

“Come _with_ me, you foolish child!” Vader shouted, over the roar of the hot wind. 

_Come with me. It is the only way._

That red blade. It was poised--if Vader wanted, he could take Luke’s hand again. 

But this time, Luke wouldn’t let him. This time, Luke was stronger; and this time, he knew the _entire truth._

With a yell, he lifted the green blade over his head and lunged forward, heedless of the way the ground shook under him. He had no idea what he intended--he wasn’t thinking. He was only acting, memories of Bespin and the dreams of a strong protector of a father turned nightmare driving him. 

He leaped into the air. The stroke would have cut Vader down. 

In fact, Vader was doing nothing to stop him. 

Luke’s feet hit the platform, lightsaber swinging--

And then the floor dropped from under him. 

With a scream, Luke fell, dropping his lightsaber in a desperate attempt to grab hold of something, _anything,_ that would keep him from falling into the lava below. One of his knees banged up against something, pain shot through his leg; but there was a surface there, something to grab hold of. 

Desperately, Luke reached. His fingers took hold, barely. He looked down. 

He was holding onto the very bottom of one of the gravity supports. It was all that was left--the only thing left to hold onto. 

Below that was only a fiery death. 

Nausea surged over him. Luke turned his head away, squeezing his eyes shut. 

_Don’t let me die,_ he whispered into the Force. _Please!_

He had used the Dark Side, he realized in horror, as he hung there and the importance of his actions caught up with him. He had been stronger because he had attacked in rage--he had almost killed Vader--

 _But Vader had killed children,_ the voice whispered. 

_But Vader’s my father._

And, no matter what his father had done, to him and to countless others, Luke had wanted to know him. 

His fingers slipped; he looked down.

Now he never would. 

“LUKE!”

The thunderous shout pierced through the fear and wind and the splashing of lava below. Luke looked up, hope shooting through him--

Vader was crouched on the narrow beam above, one hand extended. 

“Luke,” he said, his voice tinged with desperation. “Take my hand.”

The gravity support trembled; Luke gripped it tighter. 

“Father,” he said. He didn’t know what to do. 

There were two versions of his father that existed: the man he had dreamed of, who would come down from the skies and sweep him off to a life of adventure and excitement...and this creature in front of him, a cold-hearted killing machine.

How could they be the same? 

“Take my hand!” Vader repeated. 

“Do you…” Luke looked up at him desperately. “How long have you known?”

Vader’s hand dropped slightly. “What?”

“How long have you known?” Luke said again, louder. Something was trailing down his cheeks; he barely noticed. “How long--”

“Three years,” Vader said, at last seeming to understand. “I have only known for three years, I hunted you down, I needed to find you--”

“So you didn’t know when I was--” Luke started, but the gravity support shook again. Sparks flew into his face; he cried out as one of them stung his cheek. 

“I can explain it all later!” Vader snarled--but out of fear, he was afraid. “I can explain it later, but for now, you must _take my hand!_ ”

Luke nodded, at first slowly, then repeatedly, as the truth sunk in. Vader hadn’t known. His father had not known he had a son, all those years--and as soon as he had, he’d looked for him. 

There was goodness. 

Maybe a tiny speck of it, but it was there. 

“Okay,” he whispered, reaching up, stretching for his father’s hand--

He couldn’t reach it. 

Luke’s entire body trembled, and he looked down--

“Again,” Vader said, and Luke’s gaze was dragged back to meet his father’s. “Focus on me.” 

Luke took a deep breath. He could do it, but only if he pushed himself against the gravity support...which would most certainly cause its collapse. 

At that exact moment, a particularly ferocious wave below splashed upward, towards him--

Luke made his decision. 

Hoisting himself upward with his legs, he thrust his right hand toward his father’s, toward the gloved hand that was his lifeline. Vader reached for him, even bent lower--their fingers touched--

And then the gravity support broke, and Luke went tumbling towards the lava. 

Smoke engulfed him. Lava flashed upwards, stinging his arms and his back, and as his skin began to burn, his last thought was to wish he and his father had had more time. 

  
  


The world returned slowly, in a blur of pain. 

For the first few moments, pain was all that existed, in his shoulders and upper back and lungs; pain--and confusion. At first, he couldn’t think straight. He could only exist, gasping and coughing, and wondering why he hurt so much, and wondering what the hell he’d done to be in this much pain at all. 

Then he became aware that there was a hand on his chest. 

A large, comforting hand on his chest--and another in his hair, sweeping it back from his face again and again. 

And then he was aware that the arms that connected to the comforting hands were wrapped around him, cocooning him in a protective embrace. 

And there was a thick, warm material around him, sort of like a blanket. 

And beyond that, there was a calming presence in the Force surrounding him; as he coughed more, the presence reached deeper into his mind and struck directly at the center of the pain. 

The effect was immediate. The ache in his chest lessened, and Luke slowly stopped coughing. 

“Luke?” The voice spoke both out loud and in his mind, and his name spoken in that voice meant safety and security. “Luke, can you hear me?”

The voice was also anxious beyond belief; that, Luke knew even without the Force. For its sake, he made a great effort to blink his eyes open. The first time, they closed shut again; but with the second attempt, he was able to keep them open for good. 

There was a dark blur above him. He focused.

Vader. 

Father. 

Vader was holding him in his arms--holding him, Luke realized, as if he was a child. 

And he was. To Vader, at least. 

“Father,” he whispered, half wondering if this was a dream, a wonderful dream from which he never wanted to wake up. “What…” 

He started to sit up. Immediately, a wet shout was ripped from his throat; the skin on his arms felt as though it was burning up. The arms tightened around him, and yet at the same time, the hold was gentle. Delicate. 

Burning. 

Suddenly, he remembered. 

He’d fallen into the fire…

And somehow, Vader had saved him. 

“Do not move,” came the rumbling voice. “You have been...injured.” 

“How…” Luke looked around, realizing for the first time that there was no oppressive heat; the air was no longer sweltering. They were in a dark room; Luke couldn’t make out much of it. “Where…” 

“We are in my castle,” Vader said. 

“You…” Somehow, Luke couldn’t believe that. “You have a castle?”

“Yes, young one.” Vader made an odd sound, the rumblings of which Luke could feel; quiet laughter, he realized. Something he never thought could come from such a man. “There are many things about me which you do not know.”

But that begged another question. 

“How…” Forgetting himself, Luke started to sit up, only for the return of pain to cause him to cry out again. “How did you...what…”

“You fell trying to reach me,” Vader said, a tightness in his voice. “I was able to reach out with the Force and pull you to me, but there was...damage...nonetheless.” 

He looked down at himself. The blanket...no. Not a blanket. Vader’s cape. It was wrapped around him tightly enough that he couldn’t see anything, but--

“How badly,” he said. 

“Luke, I do not think--”

“I want to see,” he said again, more vehemently. 

Vader sighed. “As you wish, my son.” 

Slowly, Vader grasped the edge of the cape on Luke’s right side and pulled it away, then did the same to the other side as far as their current position would allow. 

Luke looked. 

The sleeves of his shirt had been partially burned away; the skin underneath was an ugly mottled color, scarred in parts; ugly welts traveled up his forearm to the elbow. The skin of his prosthetic had been partially burned away, and some of the metal poked through. His chest was mostly untouched; but more of the shirt was burned closer to his shoulders, and from the pain in his back, he guessed that that was the worst. 

“What happened to…” He looked up at Vader. “What does my back look like?”

“I would suppose that you have at least second degree burns there,” Vader said. “Do you…” He focused on Luke. “How do you feel?”

Luke thought about it. He couldn’t move, so…

“I mean, I’m alive,” he croaked at last. 

There was silence. 

“Yes,” Vader said at last. “You are alive.” 

For a few minutes, Luke lay in silence. The eerie lights in the castle cast interesting lights on the ceiling. 

“Where’s Artoo?” he asked at last. 

Vader chuckled again. “I wondered if you would ask that. He is waiting several floors below; he was quite anxious about you.” 

“Okay.” Luke couldn’t help a smile at that. “Thanks.” 

More silence. 

There was a thought at the back of his mind; something he wanted to say. But he didn’t know if he’d be able to say it without choking up. 

He didn’t know if he believed what had just happened. 

“You…” He had to say it. He looked up at Vader’s mask. “You saved me.” Tears began to well up in his eyes, but he still pressed on. “Thank you.” 

The mask tilted down to regard him. 

“You are welcome, my--” Vader stopped. “You are welcome.”

“You can…” Luke moved his arm, then realized he couldn’t wipe his eyes. “You can call me ‘son,’ you know. I don’t mind.” 

There was an odd emotion from Vader in the Force. Something Luke hadn’t felt from him before. 

It was shame. 

“I…” Vader bowed his head. “I do not deserve to call you that. I have slaughtered millions. I have hurt your friends. I have done all these things, selfishly--”

“But you care about me,” Luke said. 

“I…” Vader trailed off. 

“That’s…” Luke winced. “That’s a question.” 

Vader looked at him for a long moment. Through the Force, Luke could feel hints of regret, and anger, and...and deep, immense sadness. 

“I am...sorry, little one,” Vader said at last, some of that sadness leaking across into his real voice. 

That was all he said; perhaps it was all he _could_ say at the present time. But in that apology, Luke knew it was not just related to everything Vader had done to Luke. He was sorry that he had killed. He was sorry that he had killed children, and that he was so ruthless. Perhaps, deep down, he was even sorry for killing Obi-Wan. 

He was sorry that he was a monster. 

And that, Luke realized, meant that maybe he wasn’t such a monster after all. 

There was also something he needed to do. 

He could barely keep his eyes open; he was exhausted; and then there was the struggle to breathe and the constant pain in his back. It was going to hurt even more to sit up. But his father needed this. 

Luke clenched his fists. 

Even that hurt; the skin on his palms must have received the worst burn of all. He winced. 

“Luke?” Vader bent over him. “Are you--”

Gathering all his strength, Luke lunged upward, clenched his teeth from the pain that came from moving at all, lifted his arms completely free of the cape, and threw them around Vader. 

“Luke--?”

Vader stuttered in a completely uncharacteristic fashion; then, a moment later, something else surged from him in the Force, another emotion Luke had never felt from his father. It was rooted in something related to Luke, and aimed at the same place. 

Protectiveness? 

That was his best guess, but it was everything Luke had ever wished for. Because it meant that Vader _did_ care about him, maybe even loved him; that, perhaps, he was wanted as a son after all, and not as a weapon. 

Tears were spilling from his eyes. Whether they were from the pain or something else, Luke didn’t know. 

A moment later, strong arms wrapped around him in return; delicately, gently, and yet firmly. The pain in Luke’s back _seared;_ he held back a cry for his father’s sake. Who knew how long it had been since Vader had been touched like this at all? 

Maybe it had been his entire lifetime. 

It had been the same length of time that Luke had longed for a father who would love him, and protect him, come to his aid, be there for him...and now, in the most unlikely of circumstances, he was. 

“Is this a dream?” he whispered into Vader’s shoulder.

Another one of those strange chuckles rumbled through Luke. “I do not think so, my son. But perhaps.” 

“Well…” Luke coughed for a while before finding his voice again. “If it is, I hope I never wake up.” 

Vader’s hand trailed along Luke’s back, light enough to just be soothing, not painful at all. With a smile, Luke snuggled himself further into his father’s chest. 

They stayed like that for a long time. 

**Author's Note:**

> "Child, give me your hand so that I may walk in the light of your faith in me."  
> \- Hannah Kahn


End file.
